


How Crowley Saved Christmas

by such_heights



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Charles Dickens - Freeform, Christmas, Community: go_exchange, Gen, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-07
Updated: 2006-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/such_heights/pseuds/such_heights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 1842, and Aziraphale really didn’t want to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Crowley Saved Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to my beta. Hope you enjoy, [](http://kaze-to-kodoku.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaze_to_kodoku**](http://kaze-to-kodoku.livejournal.com/)!

Crowley quite liked Christmas. He kept this pretty quiet, as Hell was unlikely to take too kindly to the notion. He hadn’t always enjoyed it, especially not when it involved sitting in draughty halls sipping mead – which _must_ have been Heaven’s idea, surely – and listening to a eunuch on the harp. But the Victorians were doing a rather nice job of it. The excesses were slowly increasing since the introduction of the Christmas tree a few years back, and poverty was getting worse each year. Considering how little Crowley had had to do with it, he felt rather pleased with himself.

  
Adjusting his top hat, a gesture that never failed to give him immense joy, he strolled into the pub, hoping for warming ale, conversation with the angel, and then some sleep. Aziraphale was sitting in his usual corner, red wine in one hand and a book in the other. He looked utterly miserable. Crowley slithered in opposite him.

  
‘Good book?’

  
Aziraphale looked balefully up. ‘Not especially. Dickens on his high horse again. We really can’t make up our minds about him.’

  
Crowley blanched. ‘Well, _we_ don’t want him. Talk the hind leg off Beelzebub, he would.’

  
‘Mm,’ Aziraphale agreed absently, leafing through the pages before snapping the book shut. ‘I’m told it all hinges on his next novel.’

  
‘So, plans for Chr— the big day?’ Crowley asked – however much he liked the holiday, he couldn’t actually put a name to it without choking something terrible.

  
Aziraphale looked both miserable and grumpy now. ‘There’s some sort of local miracle planned, apparently. Poor family, lots of adorable children, about to discover the true meaning of Christmas.’ He sighed. ‘The holiday’s on the decline – they’re all still going to church, but the official feeling is that there ought to be a bit of – pizzazz.’ He looked physically pained by the concluding word.

  
Aziraphale then looked up at Crowley sorrowfully. ‘It’s really not my style at all. I don’t suppose…’ The sentence was left trailing daintily in the air.

  
Crowley twitched. ‘You’re not – oh no. No!’

  
Aziraphale smiled. ‘It would be good of you, you know – and as long as the miracle happens, you’re welcome to subvert it in any way you please; I’m a little past caring.’

  
Crowley sighed. ‘Any way I please?’

  
Aziraphale nodded.

  
‘I was going to have some good old-fashioned Yuletide fun, you know – possessing some pigs, that sort of thing.’ Crowley tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Get me a pint and I’ll think about it.’

  
There was a vat of beer on the table before Crowley had the chance to blink. Aziraphale looked at him sorrowfully. ‘I just want to stay in with my books. That’s all.’

  
Crowley groaned in despair. ‘Oh, _alright_ then.’

  
Aziraphale beamed.

  
*

  
A few days before Christmas, and Crowley was surveying the territory. He crept into the house in question one night, and snuck around to have a look at them all. Five adorable, tousled heads poked out of one bed, while dear tired mamma and papa were sleeping in a curtained off section in the same room, a tiny baby in a crib next to them.

  
Crowley sighed. The whole set-up seemed almost beyond his ability to pervert. He wandered around the rest of the house. Battered copy of the Bible – check. Meagre amount of food, loving prepared for the morning’s breakfast – check. A line of tattered shoes, ranging from the father’s big stomping work boots to little cloth things to wrap the youngest lad’s feet; and worst of all, a small but tenderly decorated tree. It was wholesome yet heart-rending, and Crowley wondered how he’d ever had the stupidity to let Aziraphale talk him into this.

  
The next day, he gathered up all their names and statistics. Rob Crotchet had a whole brood of children and a wife whom he loved very much. Most precious of all was their youngest son, a sickly boy known as Little Timothy. They made do with what they had, and somehow they seemed to pull through, despite the fact that Crotchet was employed by the most miserly banker known to man, a Mr Neezer. They said grace with great piety before every meal and after dinner the oldest girl would read passages from the Bible to the attentive children while mother sewed and Mr Crotchet listened with fatherly pride.

  
*

  
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Crowley snapped that evening.

  
Aziraphale looked bemused. ‘I’m sorry?’

  
‘They’re _perfect_ ; I can’t touch them!’

  
‘It’s hardly my problem if you can’t do your job properly, is it?’

  
Crowley glowered impressively for a moment, before relenting. ‘Alright, so, what’s this miracle to be, then?’

  
Aziraphale looked thoughtful. ‘They want something practical, this year, so food would be most welcome; also, if you could try and redeem that awful Mr Neezer in the process, that would be wonderful’

  
‘I hate you.’

  
Aziraphale smiled benignly. ‘And I forgive you.’

  
‘Sanctimonious bastard.’

  
Aziraphale returned to _Barnaby Rudge_.

  
*

  
And so it came to pass that Crowley was stood outside in the snow in the early hours of Christmas morning, having already performed a visitation unto this Mr Neezer man, scaring him so out of wits that Crowley was sure he’d do exactly what he told him. After all this exertion, he rather thought he’d need to sleep for a very, very long time. Making sure that sunbeams could shine in through the clouds, he crouched behind a bush and waited.

  
Some time later, a boy showed up hauling behind him a cart full of packages. The curtains twitched, and soon the family thronged out to gaze in awe at the beauty just in front of them. They gathered around, parents hugging their children close to them, and little Timothy’s pronounced it a ‘Cwistmas miracle’ in that terribly endearing four-year-old voice.

  
‘Is this the Crotchet house?’ he asked sullenly (Crowley couldn’t have picked a nice delivery boy, that would have been too much). ‘Got a delivery here, from Mr. Neezer.’

  
The children rushed forward to encounter vast amounts of food, all of which was hastily and reverently brought into the house. With wondering eyes, they retreated inside, and Crowley felt his job was done.

  
Before he went off to do some of his own work, he chanced a quick peek through the windows. Mrs Crotchet stood facing the window, clutching the baby in her arms with an angelic smile on her face (though she seemed on the verge of tears), whilst Mr Crotchet leaned over her. The whole family bowed their heads in prayer, and Crowley left in a rush. He was never listening to the angel again, of that he was sure.

  
On his way to encourage many a child’s tantrum, he almost bowled over a man walking swiftly through the narrow road. Crowley blinked.

  
‘What the— Dickens?’

  
The man in question looked confused. ‘Yes? Are you alright, young man?’

  
Crowley spluttered. ‘Yes yes, tip-top.’ He brushed himself down, and then had a thought. ‘Say, Charley boy, I’ve got an idea for you. There’s this family, you see – could be inspirational stuff!’ He leaned in conspiratorially to a very interested looking young author.

  
*

  
It was Christmas time the next year, and Aziraphale was rather perturbed. ‘Have you seen the latest Dickens book?’ he asked.

  
‘Hmm?’ Crowley looked about as innocuous as a piranha, though not for lack of trying.

  
‘ _A Christmas Carol_. They’re delighted up high; they think it’s wonderful – going against my recommendation to condemn this saccharine nonsense.’

  
‘Is that so? Surely you want him saved?’ Crowley laughed at Aziraphale’s struggling face.

  
‘Well, yes, yes of course I do. But honestly, on the merits of this?’

  
Crowley glanced at the book. ‘Seems very true to life to me – sure to have some redeeming effects on plenty of people. Really, he’s a credit to you all.’

  
Aziraphale suddenly looked at Crowley sharply. ‘Hang on- the Cratchits- Crowley!’

  
But with a wink and a wave, the demon was gone.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [How Crowley Saved Christmas [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/313962) by [tinypinkmouse_podfic (tinypinkmouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypinkmouse/pseuds/tinypinkmouse_podfic)




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